


Do Robots Dream of Electric Souls?

by RunMild



Series: Con-FIC-dential Tales [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Original Character(s), Other, POV Second Person, come for the robot, stay for the bitching about filmmaking, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: Whatever came out of Ebott, they're not monsters. Youknowmonsters. Hell is empty and all the devils are in Hollywood.You're not sure where robot entertainers fall on that spectrum, but frankly you're ready to give this one a shot.





	1. Day 1

The day the monsters emerge, it feels like a joke. You’re out on location, in a forest remote enough that cell reception is spotty at best. You hold your phone up like a satellite dish, hoping to get more than one bar of service, but the foot or so above your head is as dead as the surrounding area. The wheel spins endlessly on your internet before it finally throws up an error screen in defeat.

“Wanna use mine?” Jeff, the key grip, asks.

You roll your head back and stare into the pitiless gray sky. Distantly, thunder rolls.

“It was supposed to be partly cloudy,” you say mournfully.

Jeff glances up, still holding out his phone. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think the, uh, _talent_ was up for it today, anyway.”

Behind you, in the clearing, you can still hear Danya and Lyle having it out on set. Last you saw, their PAs were having a meltdown.

“If I ever agree to do a romantic comedy again, I hope God strikes me down for sheer hubris,” you mutter. There’s another, closer, clap of thunder for emphasis.

“They’re not usually this bad,” Jeff says, looking back to the argument between the trees.

This scene is supposed to be the turning point in the plot, when the leads are forced to share a tent and the atmosphere gets heated. Things certainly _have_ reached a boiling point, you think.

The shouting reaches a fever pitch.

“Maybe this is how they get into character,” you say, voice dead. You want a cigarette and you don’t even smoke. Much. The film industry does that to a person.

“Pretty sure their characters are supposed to like each other.”

“Some acting, then.” You finally take the proffered phone and tap the internet icon. “Yahoo news, Jeff? Really?”

He has the decency to look abashed.

You scroll past headlines about celebrity babies and monsters and politics—wait, _monsters?_ You swipe back up.

_Monsters Emerge from Isolation_

“I’m changing your default home screen, man,” you say, staring at the bizarre cover image. “This is embarrassing.”

You continue down to the weather report.

_Thunderstorms._

“God _fucking_ dammit.”

 

* * *

 

The hotel bar has four dollar LITs, and the entire crew is taking advantage.

“Do you think they’ll let us go home if the stars break contract?” Philomena asks, glumly shelling free peanuts and passing them to her girlfriend. She’s the boom op, sound mixer, and general muscle of set. You watched her haul half of the equipment under cover today, arms rippling in her sleeveless top. You kind of wish the bar had walnuts instead of peanuts so that you could watch her crack them open one-handed.

At Phil’s—only her girlfriend is allowed to use her full name—comment, your director unburies her head from her arms long enough to snap, “Please don’t speak that idea into existence.” She takes a vicious swig of her drink before dropping her head again with a muffled thump. Vera has had more alcohol than any of you, but her eyes were bloodshot before your group even straggled to the mostly empty bar. You don’t know if it’s the stress, or whether she’s been taking swigs out of a hidden flask.

Actually, a hidden flask sounds like a _great_ idea. You pull up your notepad app and add it to your reminders. Your newsfeed has a couple new blinking announcements, and you squint blurrily at the headlines.

_Underground for Hundreds of Years – What Do the Monsters Plan Now?_

_Is the Monster Under Your Bed Real, Too? Real Monsters Weigh In_

You open your mouth to comment on what has to be a new meme taken too far, but get railroaded by Jeff’s assistant.

“Whose idea was it to cast Danya the Disaster, anyway?” best boy Bob asks. You have no idea if Bob is his real name, but he answers to it and that’s what’s important.

You all look to Vera, who groans, but doesn’t raise her head again.

“To be fair,” Phil says, “Dickhead started it.”

“Yeah, _today._ ”

“Guys,” you say, unwilling to listen to any more bickering, “do we want another round?”

There’s a chorus of “yeah”s with varying degrees of enthusiasm, so you raise your cup and make eye contact with the otherwise unoccupied bartender. She looks at you all pityingly and nods.

You love open tabs. This is what film budgets were made for.

When the new glasses are delivered, brimming with a blackout-inducing cocktail of liquors and various dark soda mixers, there are still some grumbles about uppity b-list actors and shitty forecasters. Outside, rain lashes the windows.

“Hey, can you unmute the TV?” Jeff is craning to look past your head at the screen. The bartender obliges, and half the group shifts to see, drunk enough to feign interest.

“—no official word yet from the president, but White House officials assure us that there is no reason to fear these so-called “monsters,” and are urging the public to remain calm. We expect an official statement later this evening. James?”

“Thank you, Leslie. I’m here live in Hillside, the once-quiet town that has, in a matter of hours, become the focal point of the nation—and the world.”

Typical evening news dramatics. You stab at the lemon garnish with your straw, your face equally sour. The camera pans to encompass an idyllic town in a mountainous region before flashing to a recorded scene that stops you mid-jab.

“Earlier today, witnesses claim to have seen a group of creatures descend from the slopes of the nearby Mount Ebott, and though initially believed to be actors in costume, the truth appears much stranger.”

The footage shown is unsteady and shot in portrait-mode, obviously filmed on a phone camera. It looks like Halloween come early, or April Fools a month too late. You remember, in a flash of unwelcome sobriety, the news story on Jeff’s phone.

The creatures on screen are… not human. There’s a jumble of clips edited together, all showing the same group, and you may be drunk, but the different angles, the frantic narration of the people holding the cameras, it all seems uncomfortably real.

“Is this like that war of the worlds broadcast? Are they doing that?” Phil’s girlfriend, Brianne, leans over her little mountain of peanut shells as if getting closer to the television will help her make sense of the story. On screen, a woman recounts her encounter with “an actual zombie, I swear to god” and you feel your last ill-advised beverage start to crawl up your throat.

“ _Faaake,”_ Bob says into his drink.

Jeff shushes him.

“Reports are still flooding in from up and down the coast, though the epicenter of the event remains here in Hillside. The story has taken the internet by storm, and we expect an influx of tourists and bystanders over the next several days.”

The screen splits, showing both newscasters. Back in the studio, Leslie looks grim.

“Have you seen any evidence of these “monsters,” James?”

His smile is plastic. “I have, Leslie, and I have to say… if this is a hoax, it’s a very convincing one.”

Leslie promises more coverage is forthcoming, and the segment breaks for commercials.

“Man,” Bob says in the ensuing silence, “furries are really stepping it up a level.”

Phil beans him with a peanut.

“Well that was fucking surreal,” Brianne says. “I’m not sure whether that makes me want to sober up or get plastered.”

Jeff’s fingers are flying over his phone screen. “Guys, this shit is wild. The national guard is getting involved.”

One of the camera operators lets out a low whistle from another table.

“Think we’ll see any action over here? Hillside’s, what, two hours north?” Bob muses.

You inhale a piece of ice and sputter. “Gah—god, I— _hrk_ —hope not.” This shoot needs to wrap up before the whole thing implodes.

Vera knocks her glass against the counter. You think she says “Fill me up,” but it’s hard to tell with her voice muffled.

“You sure, boss?”

She raises a single finger in answer.

“Hey,” Phil looks thoughtful. “Howard’s still sober, right?”

“Unless he’s hit up his minibar, yeah,” Bob says. “He said he was going to bed.”

The gaffer looked about ready to throw in the towel earlier, so you’re not surprised.

“On a scale from one to ten, how likely is he to send me packing if I wake ‘im up?” She’s already half out of her seat, jacket flung over one bare shoulder.

“Twelve,” Bob says.

You nod. “Send you packing straight to hell, maybe.”

“Well, any of you sober enough to drive?”

There’s a smattering of laughter, but no affirmatives. Excitement seemingly over, everyone goes back to their drinks. You feel something brewing, though. Looking at Phil’s flushed, grinning face, you feel a weightless swell of anticipation in your gut.

Then again, that could be the alcohol.

Phil waggles her fingers toward Brianne. “C’mon, babe, let’s go.”

The other woman groans, but takes the proffered hand.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You get your own feet under you with a bit of maneuvering and follow them across the bar and into the lobby. “Are you seriously going to drive to Hillside tonight? We have an early shoot tomorrow.”

“ _We’re_ not driving,” Phil says, gesturing between the two of them. “But hell, if we can get a chauffeur, yeah. It’s only a four hour round trip, give or take.” Her smile grows to near manic proportions. “C’mon, at worst, there’re a bunch of weirdos roleplaying in the woods, but at best— _zombies_.”

“I think you have those mixed up, babe.”

Phil winks. “Nah.”

You scrub your hand over your face. “It’s like a hurricane out there.”

It’s a weak argument and you know it.

Phil shrugs. “Adventures wouldn’t be fun if they were _safe._ ”

Brianne rolls her eyes.

“Come with us if you wanna supervise.”

“You know I can’t.” You wave a hand toward the bar, encompassing your other crew members and your implied duties. The second AD—basically the first, since you haven’t seen Lawrence in nearly three days—can’t just up and abandon ship. Even if it’s for a few hours.

Even if you’re drunk and feeling kind of stupid.

“Square.”

“Slacker.”

Phil just grins and tugs Brianne towards the elevators.

“Hey, wait!” Jeff comes skidding out of the bar, a bit unsteady on his feet. His hair is curling out of its bun and you see the flash of a video still playing on his phone. The words “monsters” and “conspiracy” are pretty clear, even over the music filtering out behind him. “You guys are going up to Hillside, right?”

“We might be.” Brianne looks him over. “You okay, dude?”

“Yeah, no vomiting in the car,” Phil says. The elevator dings open.

“You don’t even have a driver yet!” you call, still wavering on the edge of the room.

“Give me five minutes and a blow horn.” Phil looks at you, holding the doors open with one arm. “Last chance, bud. Hangover in a hotel or hangover with national guardsmen and some guys in wet fursuits?”

“Aw, fuck, when you put it like _that._ ” You cross the lobby at a half-jog. Chances are, Howard will send you all scurrying back to your rooms and you’ll pop an advil. And if not, well.

You could use a good laugh.


	2. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Close encounters of the weird kind

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a _little_ funny.”

Brianne thumps her head against the headrest. “Is someone going to fix this, or…?”

Phil pats her girlfriend’s leg, still grinning at you. “You got a jack, Vince?”

Vincent, your put-upon driver, sighs and nods, looking like he regrets every decision that led him to this wet shoulder of the road in the middle of the night.

“Cool. I’ll get the spare.” There’s a rush of cool air and a spray of rain as Phil opens her door, and even in the passenger seat, you feel a few stray droplets.

Vince turns to you, still buckled in. “You owe me.”

You want to protest that this wasn’t actually your idea, but he’s already hauling himself out of the car, head bent against the rain.

Oh well. You’ll find a way to make it up to the guy.

The initial plan of recruiting Howard for this journey fell through when none of you could recall his room number. Everyone on the third floor was saved from Phil’s idea of knocking until you found him when Vincent from props came stumbling out of a room and into your drunken huddle. You don’t know whose room he was visiting but judging from his flushed face and kiss-red lips, you’d wager that it wasn’t his own.

Phil sensed weakness and pounced.

Poor Vince never stood a chance.

“Hey, we’re trashed and we need a driver to take us someplace. You finished in there, or you up for it?”

Vince is a big guy, but in that moment, folded in on himself in embarrassment, he looked smaller than even Brianne.

“Uh, sure?” he said, clearly wishing he was anywhere else.

He probably thought you all needed to go to the 7-Eleven. Too bad he didn’t ask for clarification until he had a passel of unruly drunks in his car.

“I’m too sober for this,” Brianne complains from the back. “Where’s the stash?”

You pop the dash and hand her several bottles that Phil liberated from her minibar. She said she wasn’t risking any sober decisions.

Jeff shifts in his seat. “I gotta take a whiz.”

You unscrew a tiny bottle of whiskey and knock it back with a wince. The liquor keeps you from thinking too hard about your situation.

“Just step out,” you say, squinting through the rain-blurred window. “Can’t see for shit anyway.”

He mutters something unintelligible.

Brianne snickers. “Performance anxiety?”

“Phil is right there!” he protests. “I can’t just—”

You turn in time to see him mime whipping it out.

“Oh, honey.” Brianne gives him a condescending pat. “Believe me when I say that she will _not_ be looking at your dick.”

You want to add that Phil is too busy changing a tire to hassle anyone, but your head feels heavy and your buzz has turned into lethargy.  

“There’s a line of trees _right there,_ Jeff,” you say tiredly.

He deliberates for another minute before the dire state of his bladder overcomes his obvious desire to stay in the dry car.

“ _Fuck,”_ he mutters and dashes out into the sluicing rain.

You watch the red of his windbreaker disappear into the tree line, looking for all the world like a streak of color in a Van Gogh painting.

“I’m going to get soaked,” Brianne says, sounding glum. She has the misfortune of sitting in the middle seat, and with two wet bodies pressed against her, you don’t think much of her chances.

“Puts a real _damper_ on things, huh?” you murmur, eyes closing.

Brianne kicks the back of your seat.

You must drift off, because you’re jolted back into consciousness some indeterminate time later when a drenched Phil and Vince slide back into the car.

“The day is saved,” Phil cheers, swiping water off of her face. “I accept gratitude in hugs.”

She opens her arms, but Brianne leans away.

“You’re wet!”

Phil winks. “ _Aaall_ for you, baby.”

Vince, dead-eyed, stares straight ahead. A bead of water drips from his nose. “Can we turn around?”

“We’re actually closer to Hillside than the hotel,” you say through a yawn.

The GPS on the dash shows the car stopped on an empty stretch of winding, mountainous road.

“Hey, where’s Jeff?” Phil asks.

You turn around. “He’s not back?”

Brianne shrugs, but her eyes are wide.

“What do you mean, ‘he’s not back?’ Did he pop off to the handy roadside convenience store to get _snacks?”_ Phil’s voice is steadily rising. “It’s the middle of bum-fucking- _nowhere!”_

“He had to pee,” Brianne says, voice small.

“Oh my _god,”_ Vince groans. He closes his eyes and seems to check out entirely.

“I’ll go find him,” you offer. You glance to the others, hoping they’ll shoot your idea down, but no one speaks up.

“Right,” you say after a moment. “Off I go.”

And with that, you sacrifice your dry clothes to the rain gods.

 

Jeff is nowhere to be found.

“Jeff, buddy, c’mon!” you shout into the uncaring storm.

He has yet to answer any of your increasingly desperate pleas, but hope springs eternal.

Visibility is incredibly poor in the woods, the rain and the darkness competing to make your life difficult. You use your phone light, for what little good _it_ does, and when it becomes clear that Jeff isn’t in sight of the road, you leave even the meager light of the car behind.

“ _Jeeeff!”_

You start to really feel that mini bottle of whiskey, your heartrate picking up with your slip-sliding trek through the trees, pumping the alcohol to every extremity. On the upside, you’re warmer than you ought to be, but the downside—

“Fuck, _shit!”_

—Your footing is less than steady.

Your new vantage point from the ground gives you no clues as to the whereabouts of your wayward companion, but it does give you a fun ‘swamp chic’ look. For a frantic moment, you think you’ve lost your phone, but it’s lit up a couple feet away. You tuck it away and try in vain to brush the wet leaves and mud from your jeans and jacket sleeve, but like everything else tonight, you give it up as a lost cause.

Lightning forks overhead, and in the brief moment of illumination, you see a flash of red.

“JEFF!” you shout, but the accompanying thunder roars over you.

You scramble up the sloping hill, feet catching on snarls of root and slick vegetation. Up ahead, you see a hunched, gray form. Without a light, you can’t tell if it’s the red that you saw, but it looks people-shaped. Distracted, you forget to watch where you’re putting your feet, and your foot snags on a jut of tree root not two feet from your goal. At the last moment, you throw your arms out, catching something wet and warm around the middle.

“Goddammit, Jeff,” you mutter into his side. “Did you forget which way the road was?”

You shuffle your feet back under you and begin to straighten when it really registers that what you’re gripping does not feel… Jeff-like. It’s too firm, for one, and even over the rain, you can smell something musky that your sends your hindbrain into spirals of panic.

_Animal._

You jump back as if burned, promptly reacquainting your ass with the mud.

Before you, something much larger than a human raises itself from its crouch. Its shapes are ones that you’re familiar with, but the combination is all wrong. You don’t usually work on horror flicks, but you know a monster when you see it.

Something moves in your lower vision—a giant tail, oh god—and you get a clear view of what the creature was bent over.

_Jeff._

“ _Fuck,”_ you choke out.

As far as last words go, it’s a bit of a letdown.

The monster bends toward you.

_Muscles, so many muscles—_

“If you insist,” he says.

And winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [t-t-tumblrrr](https://conficdential.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, I [sketched the protag](https://conficdential.tumblr.com/post/173019172981/sketch-of-the-mc-from-this-fic), though you may continue to envision her however you like.


End file.
